For to Fill Up Your Soul
by Jack E. Peace
Summary: She just wanted to be whole again.


**Disclaimer**: Not mine. The title and inspiration comes from the song "Catalyst" by Anna Nalick  
_A/N_: I feel angst-y. This is what happens. Read, review, enjoy.

It had been so long since she had felt like she was complete. She had forgotten what it was like to be whole. She wondered if she looked like she was shattered, broken, in pieces to the people around her; her husband noticed she was no longer together but she had decided that no one else did. She wished that she could feel that way inside.

She wanted so desperately to find all of her pieces and put them back in the puzzle that was herself. But they were scattered, hidden here and there and she couldn't find them any longer. The fact that she was often too far-gone to even see straight didn't seem to help either. But she knew that she needed the alcohol that had become as much a part of her as the blood that told her that she was still human, still alive despite the fact that she felt so empty and dead. She didn't want to admit to herself that she needed the alcohol nor the way it made her feel, or didn't feel perhaps was more accurate but she was tired of lying to everyone around her, including herself and even if she couldn't tell the truth to anyone else she could at least tell it to herself. But the truth was something that no one ever wanted to hear.

At times, the use of alcohol to numb her mind, to dull her pain backfired, no matter how much she drank. Now seemed to be one of those times for no matter how much warm vodka slid down her throat she could tell remember everything. She could remember every little detail of the events that had driven her to where she was at that moment, sitting on the edge of the bed she shared with her husband, seeing the world through blurred eyes, unable to realize that her eyes were filled with tears. She didn't think she could cry anymore; she considered herself too numb.

As always, the vodka was warm as it passed her lips and down her throat, numbing only her physical self as it passed. She was angry, she wanted her miracle cure to work once again. She so badly needed a miracle at that moment. She wanted to forget, she wanted to forget everything.

And she so desperately wanted to pretend that her problems had started with Rebecca Bloom, the only woman in the world, it seemed, who had the power to destroy her happiness, take away her husband's attention and drive her down a unsteady path. But she knew that was another lie, one that she didn't want to tell herself anymore. It was time for the truth, was it not? The truth that she did not want to hear.

But her mind seemed to be convinced otherwise and she wasn't used to her mind putting up a fight. Usually, the vodka knocked it out before the first round had even begun but tonight there had been no instant knockout and she was tired of listening to the bell ding. Not matter how much of the vodka she swallowed, she still remembered but that didn't stop her from tilting her head back and taking another long sip.

Over the summer, she had begun to fall apart. No one had noticed, not even her husband; of course, he had noticed to an extent but it was impossible to notice everything about everyone. She didn't blame him for that, at least, she hadn't over the summer. She blamed him now, blamed him for not keeping her family together, for ignoring her as he allowed himself to become lost in his own feelings. They were supposed to be husband and wife, they were supposed to be there for one another and he hadn't been there for her. He had taken several of her puzzle pieces and wouldn't give them back.

Her sons had taken others, others that they had tried to return but seemed intent on putting them in the wrong spots. They had left her, maybe when she had needed them most and they had retuned under the assumption that everything and everyone would go back to normal. They had not noticed, in their concern over their girlfriends and fitting back into the life they had so gallantly left months before, that their mother had not gone back to normal.

She tried to ignore the way it felt to be ignored and had quickly discovered what had happened her do that. The alcohol had fooled her into believing that all her pieces were back, at least for the moment, or had made her too numb to care either way whether or not she was whole. It helped make her complete; it made her a finished puzzle once again.

But now it wasn't working. Now she remembered that she had lost everything about her, now she remembered what Rebecca had done, that she had almost taken her husband away from her. She remembered Carter and how he, much like the alcohol, had helped her become complete once again. He had left her too and all she had were the now useless bottles of vodka that seemed as common in her house as bagels.

She looked down at the half-finished bottle in her hands and spited it. It was not doing its job, it was not helping her forget, it was not filling in her holes like it should. She needed something, she needed to forget, she needed to be full.

In a dazed manner, she got to her feet before even realizing that she wanted to stand. She stared toward the bathroom, holding the bottle against her chest like something precious, despite the fact that she was coming to resent the liquid. It was not helping her.

It should help her. In the bathroom, the lights were bright but she put them on anyway, not thinking to wince at the glow. She looked at herself in the mirror but couldn't tell that the reflection belonged to her. The eyes were distance, red and empty; the face was dull, haggard and tired. The body was empty; the body was not a body.

The mirror was the door to a cabinet and so she flung it open, doing away with the reflection. The door banged against the wall but she didn't think to notice. All that mattered was that she didn't have to look at the person she had become; if the vodka had been doing its job, she wouldn't have had to see it at all.

Inside the cabinet were basic bathroom necessities, shaving cream and razors, after shave and eye liner. Her eyes fell upon tiny bottles, aspirin bottles perhaps, a prescription bottle from the time when a doctor had put on her meds to control her stress level. That had been years ago; had she been broken all ready? She took them, she studied them but she did not return them. She simply took another drink and pried off the cap; it took a while off course. The damn thing was childproof.

In a somewhat curious manner, she poured the pills into her hand, studying the blue tablets with detachment. They had been prescribed to relieve her stress; she needed a stress reliever now. She sat on the closed toilet seat, continuing to study what was in her hand.

She took a drink and she swallowed a pill. She couldn't tell that she had taken anything at all and so she took two more; they were going to help her forget. She needed so badly to forget. If she could just forget everything that had broken her for at least an hour, then she might be able to think about how to put herself back together. Of course, she always felt this way and an hour turned into two and so on and eventually she passed out and woke and remembered again. She swallowed; the vodka was still warm, the pill was heavy.

For a moment, she considered what she was doing. Nothing really seemed to register; she wasn't doing anything wrong, she just wanted to forget; she wanted to be numb for a few hours. There was nothing wrong with not wanting to remember.It wasn't as though she were taking the pills in the hopes of never waking up again.

After all, Kirsten Cohen was not one to consider suicide. She simply wanted to be complete once more.


End file.
